


French

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to John suddenly that they've done this before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	French

The lighting in the flat has been set just right, low and warmly glowing like it's trying to contradict the glaring horror of the Christmas lights outside. London has decided to paint itself gold and red and green for Christmas, and Baker Street is no exception.

John isn't sure how he got here, but he knows what's going to happen. That's reassuring, at least.

In the silence of the sitting room, the old Grandfather that Mrs Hudson rescued from a car boot sale is ticking softly, marking out the evening going by. The clock face is faded with age but the golden numbers still shine brightly in the light from the fire; it's like a Dickens novel, John thinks, only bastardised by Sherlock's precise, careful hand.

Hands on which thoughtful fingers are now steepled, sat awkwardly in the armchair next to the licking flames of the fire. Sherlock has his knees bent, pressed in close to his chest with his toes curled against the edge of the cushion beneath him. He looks like a child, but a fiendish, devilish sort of child.

Refusing to play to his brother's time frame, Mycroft is moving slowly through the flat, first hanging up his coat and then his hat. He gives up his umbrella last, as though reluctant, and then smoothes down the crisp, clean lines of his suit jacket.

"John," he says in greeting, as though they didn't just meet downstairs at the front door. John feels a frisson of unexpected excitement at the fact his name is effectively Mycroft beginning the evening proper. Starting the show.

He hadn't expected to _want_ this. He wanted Sherlock, before he was turned down.

And after too, of course, but that's beside the point.

What he means is that he never expected to actually find this situation a substitute. A release, yes, and consolingly as close to Sherlock as he would ever get, but not a pleasure in it's own right.

He feels the beginnings of that now though, fizzing in his chest. 

Mycroft makes his way calmly to the sofa, pinching a careful finger full of material on each trouser leg as he sits down. It's a move from a bygone era, something John has seen men do in black and white films. He's never seen it done in real life, men wear jeans instead these days or don't care about getting knees in their pants; trust Mycroft to hold onto the past, to retain the delicate ways of gentlemen.

As he sits, John feels the sofa dip lightly and a spark of excitement runs up his spine.

"How are you this evening, John?" Mycroft asks, and John realises his shoulders must be squared from tension. He tries to relax them.

"Um, yes, alright."

"Good," Mycroft replies, dragging the 'oo' sound out just a little too long, and it occurs to John suddenly that they've done this before. He doesn't need qualification, he just knows it's true. This all came together too easily, Mycroft is too many fluid, relaxed lines and Sherlock is too much of a heavy, expectant presence in the corner.

John isn't sure how he feels about that, that he isn't the first one. He just wishes he'd had a chance to speak to his predecessor. Find out exactly what he has in store for him.

"And how is work, John?"

At the sound of Mycroft's smooth, unhurried words there is an impatient click of a tongue from the corner and both Mycroft and John turn at once. Sherlock looks like a gargoyle perched there, intense and pointed, cast into odd shadow by the light from the fire. His cheekbones appear sharper, his hair more careless around his face. John feels a kick of desire in his stomach.

"Dispensing with pleasantries is so beastly, don't you think, John?" Mycroft asks, whilst never taking his eyes from Sherlock. John looks back and forth between them, at the careful stare being held between two pairs of eyes and wonders whether he really needs to be here at all.

"Ah, yes," he replies.

"No need for us to lose our decency, is there?" Mycroft smiles, finally snapping his gaze back to John. It's so polite he almost laughs.

"None at all."

Another tutting noise comes from the corner, but this time both John and Mycroft ignore it. 

"Are you all ready for Christmas, John?"

"Um, not yet," he coughs, not entirely sure where this is going. "One or two things left to get."

"Cutting it rather fine," Mycroft smiles, tone warm with what John has learned is what passes for genuine Holmesian affection. "Do feel free to borrow Anthea tomorrow if you need her, my chauffeur will drop you wherever you need to go."

"Oh," John nods, surprised. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Like a spectre from the corner, Sherlock mutters into the silence, "Oh for God's sake..."

John is about to cast him a glance when he feels a hand touch his knee and instead he looks down. Mycroft is rather adept at distraction.

"I always find this time of year so stressful. Good to find a little diversion every now and then and - " the hand on John's knee squeezes gently, "Relax."

John thinks that as pick up lines go, that isn't really the greatest, but at least Mycroft is trying. 

And with a bed made up for them especially in the next room, he really needn't try at all.

A long, protracted sigh of boredom causes John's eyes to flicker briefly to Sherlock. He's watching Mycroft intently, the set of his mouth suggesting he's exasperated with the annoying small talk but John can see his eyes clearly in the glow from the fireplace. And John knows the sharp focus of Sherlock's eyes when he's interested in something; he's seen it before. Sherlock is looking at his brother like he's perfectly laid out crime scene, and the thought of that causes a burst of heat in his stomach.

"Are you - ah - are you ready for Christmas?" John asks, turning back to Mycroft. He feels distracted and dazed and suddenly very, very warm.

"Not quite," Mycroft replies carefully, and John watches as his eyes linger just a moment too long on John's lips, as though precisely planning his destination. "There's one last thing I need to do."

John feels his mouth go dry. "Oh?" He can feel the burn of Sherlock's eyes, remembers the smooth, rich lie of, 'I'm not interested in such things, John. But there is something we can arrange...'

He _is_ interested. Just too lazy to work up the sweat.

"What's that, then?" John asks, knowing the answer already, can feel the swirling pressure of Mycroft's thumb on his knee. And he's more than ready for it.

"You."

When Mycroft leans in to him, John already has his lips parted. The mouth on his is warm and tastes smartly of mint, thoroughly well prepared. He himself has just had a cup of tea and he realises it must taste that way, but before he can worry about it too much there is a tongue elegantly swiping his. It lures him in and quietens everything else in John's mind until it's all suddenly a blur. He focuses on the soft pull of Mycroft's mouth, the intimate, arousing ghost of warm air as their breath mingles for a moment. 

Teeth scrape lightly at John's bottom lip, bite ever-so-gently down and he shivers. So, this is how it's going to be, then. He can live with this; he can very much live with this. Mycroft opens a little wider when John flicks his tongue, allowing more of him in. It never veers away from utterly graceful but John feels a distinct thrill of the debauched as Mycroft mouths his upper lip, slowing him down in an effort to be precise. 

It's heady and intoxicating and John feels the warmth from the fire curling up at the edges of his cream woollen jumper as Mycroft deepens the pressure on his knee, begins trailing his hand down, inching along his thigh. John feels himself melting, the spark as their tongues brush at the edges dragging his eyes lids heavier.

They part for a dignified gasp of air as Sherlock makes a quiet, appreciative noise from the corner of the room. 

It's going to be a long night.


End file.
